


Toujours Ivre

by catharsia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dealer Grantaire, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, even though they aren't technically in a relationship it's still unhealthy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharsia/pseuds/catharsia
Summary: ‘I don't have it,’ says Grantaire, holding his gaze.Enjolras narrows his eyes, peering at him. Grantaire's always liked being ambiguous: making jokes that might be jokes or might be serious - 'I make a point of avoiding friendships in general, you know'; or saying 'Enj' like he's saying 'ange' whenever he's drunk out of his mind. Other times, Grantaire is just purposefully difficult. Most of the time, actually.‘I don't believe you.’‘Well, aren't you perceptive?’ drawls Grantaire. ‘I have it, and I'm not selling it to you. Happy?’or: enjolras is an addict. grantaire is a dealer who doesn't want to keep selling to him. enjolras has a problem with this turn of events.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Toujours Ivre

**Author's Note:**

> please note the tags before you read! this is not a happy or healthy fic.

'Where's Grantaire?’ snaps Enjolras, upon stepping through the door. He doesn't wait to see if anyone's inside the bar: customer or server. It's probably a stroke of luck that it's a slightly scared-looking Joly who responds, midway through wiping down a table.

‘Downstairs, I think?’

Enjolras nods curtly at him, even as he himself is already moving; weaving his way around the stacked furniture so swiftly that he vaguely registers his thighs slamming into stools as he goes, hard enough to develop bruises. That's fine; they'll be gone in a day or two, probably.

It's late afternoon, and the Musain bar is technically open for business but no one's here, yet, and so the air on the main floor smells of aggressively applied cleaning fluid with an undertone of spilled alcohol. Descending down into the basement is a different matter. No one bothers cleaning up in here from day to day, and burnt-plant-smell hits Enjolras's nostrils from the second he steps into the stairwell.

Grantaire is sitting on the couch, dark hair clouded around his head as he bends forwards over his joint, and there's a thin haze of smoke all around his head that blurs all of him out, just a little, like he's been drawn in with a soft pencil; like Enjolras's eyes can't quite catch on him no matter how hard he tries. So instead of trying, he zeroes in on what's on the side-table next to Grantaire: three little zip lock bags; what look like gummies inside. Not Enjolras’s thing.

There's a muffled lighter click, and then Grantaire is peering up at Enjolras over a fresh, lazy stream of smoke, eyes wide and startled. ‘Oh… hey, Apollo?’

‘Hey,’ says Enjolras. He becomes conscious of how aggressive his own stance is; that his hair is wild and probably his eyes, too, and tries to soften a little, which he's never, ever been good at. He takes a deep breath, casting for something to talk about; some way to subtly equivocate around to the main point. When he can't think of anything remotely normal that they might have in common to talk about, he nods to Grantaire’s joint. 'That's not your first.’

‘No,’ says Grantaire, and takes another drag on it, tilting his head to blow the smoke over his shoulder. Enjolras thinks, somewhat nastily, that he isn't quite sure why he even bothers: that it's all Grantaire’s clothes and hair and skin smell of at this point anyway. ‘I’ve been doing this for quite a few years, now, you know.’

‘Very funny,’ Enjolras says, crossing the room until he's standing just in front of the couch. Then he thinks the better of it, and gingerly slides onto it, just across from Grantaire, who regards him with some mix of amusement and bemusement.

‘You shouldn't do too much in one night,’ Enjolras continues.

Grantaire scoffs, at that. Enjolras is just about self-aware enough to recognise that, yeah, maybe he's a bit hypocritical. Or not. He only ever does speed - well, mostly - and only as much of it as he needs. And right now, with his head a seething, twitchy mess, he _needs_ quite a lot.

‘So, have you, er - done any drawings lately?’

‘Yeah, a few. Cut the crap, Enjolras. I know what you want.’

Enjolras sighs, immediately standing from the couch. ‘Good. I have the money here. You had a new delivery on Tuesday, didn't you? I just need some speed - thirty will be perfect.’

_‘Thirty_ grams?’ asks Grantaire, eyes narrowing.

‘Clearly, I won’t do all of it at once,’ Enjolras says, sharp, and ignores Grantaire muttering _yeah, I've heard that one before._ ‘I just don't like coming here more often than I have to.’

There's an off-putting glint in Grantaire's eye that Enjolras doesn't quite recognise, but it makes him automatically want to bristle. 

‘How much are you taking per day, then?’ Grantaire asks neutrally.

‘Never more than four grams.’ It really is mostly true.

‘Hm,’ says Grantaire. He stubs out his joint on the table, even though it's barely burnt, and moves his hand to rest his chin on it. There's much more stubble on his face than Enjolras is used to seeing there: he wonders when that happened.

‘Well?’

‘Yeah, no,’ says Grantaire, holding his gaze.

‘No, as in - what, no, you don't have thirty?’

‘...Yeah, maybe.’

Enjolras narrows his eyes, peering at him. Grantaire's always liked being ambiguous: making jokes that might be jokes or might be serious - _I make a point of avoiding friendships in general, you know_ ; or, with some regularity, _you coming, darling?_ to Joly, as he leaves the bar for his flat with a wink and wave; or saying _Enj_ like he's saying _ange_ whenever he's drunk out of his mind. Other times, Grantaire is just purposefully difficult. Most of the time, actually.

‘I don't believe you.’

‘Well, aren't you perceptive?’ drawls Grantaire. ‘I have it, and I'm not selling it to you. Happy?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Oh, you know me. I’m wild. But yes.’

Today he is indeed in _difficult_ mode, then. Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment, lightly, then drags them open again. ‘May I ask why not, then?’

Grantaire laughs, at that; a high-pitched quasi-hysterical almost-giggle, which really isn't the reaction Enjolras was expecting. He presses his palm into his face for a moment, mumbling something, and Enjolras wonders in some consternation just how high he really is. Enjolras has very rarely seen Grantaire seriously high. Seriously _drunk_ is another matter, but Grantaire moderates his drugs better than his drink; with drugs, he seems to prefer a soft constant kind of haze, where he can still function as well as he ever does function.

Enjolras checks his watch: quarter to seven. Upstairs, customers will be arriving, and back at home - and everywhere else - Enjolras’s deadline is inexorably approaching.

‘ _Why not_ , he asks,’ Grantaire says, finally removing his hand from his mouth so Enjolras can hear him. ‘Do you even know - what you look like, right now? Like complete shit. Well, not that you've ever looked shit a day in your lovely life, but you're coming close to it now. You're obviously stressed out of your mind and I can't - I fucking refuse to do this tonight, okay? Go home and calm down.’

Enjolras stares at him. God, he's fucking unbelievable. ‘Yes, I’m stressed. Do you think doing this to me is going to make that any better?’

‘Probably not. Doesn't give you a good reason to do it.’

‘Oh, come off it. You're a drug dealer, Grantaire. You don't need to know the reason, you just take the money.’

‘Right,’ says Grantaire. There's something a little strange in his eyes, and for a moment Enjolras worries he's said something terrible, gone too far, but - Grantaire is just being so infuriatingly unreasonable. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I threw my life away and you're still the hotshot college student, is that it?’

‘If you want to put it that way, then yes!’ Enjolras snaps, throwing up a hand. 

‘Right,’ says Grantaire, nodding his head. He's still sprawled out along the couch, but the lines of his body are different, somehow: tensed like a boxer’s. ‘Okay. well, you know what? I hate to break this to you, Apollo, but we're the exact same. Addicts. You can go on lying to yourself for as long as you want, really. Some time pretty soon, your life is going to be thrown off the fucking rails, and you'll be down here in the dirt with the rest of us. Maybe when it gets real bad you could sell your ass, you know? It's certainly pretty enough, not that the clients will really care what you look like at the end of the day.’

Enjolras stares at him, incoherent with annoyance for a few heavy moments. ‘ _Fuck you_ ,’ he gets out, eventually, and when Grantaire laughs again, it's even more unsettling than before.

‘Not really the way to get me to cough up your speed, is it?’

He looks so entirely smug.

‘You know what?’ Enjolras says, slowly. ‘Fine. I don't need it.’

‘...Really?’

‘Really, yes. Not from you.’

‘Oh,’ says Grantaire, and suddenly all the cruel tension has left his limbs: he looks almost happy. Then he’s frowning again. ‘wait, what?’

‘Mm,’ says Enjolras, holding his gaze. ‘Montparnasse is just down the street, you know? He sells cheaper than you anyway.’

‘Enjolras, Grantaire says, eyes widening, like it's some sacred word of caution. ‘Enjolras.’

'I'll just go there now. It's on my way home.’

He turns to go, already half-triumphantly, and he's unsurprised when he feels the jolt of Grantaire's hand grabbing around his wrist a second later. Enjolras turns back, looking into his eyes.

‘You can't,’ says Grantaire. ‘Oh, my god, do you actually want to die?’

‘I’m not going to _die_ from a little bit of speed.’

‘You know he'll cut it with heroin and fuck knows what else. Eponine - do you know Eponine? Gavroche’s sister? He landed her in hospital last year. She barely made it out again.’

Grantaire is close to him - and when did that happen? - close enough that Enjolras can clearly see his eyes, no longer shrouded in smoke or anger but something strangely close to desperation.

‘Let go of me,’ Enjolras says quietly. Grantaire doesn't.

‘You're not going to him. Enjolras. You aren't this stupid. Enj, please.’

‘Maybe I am this stupid,’ Enjolras breathes, and steps closer. ‘You know what? I’m definitely this stupid. I'm walking out of that door right now and going straight to see Montparnasse.’

He pauses calmly - deliberately, then adds, ‘Unless you've changed your mind?’

Grantaire's pupils are fully blown, so wide that there's nothing left to be seen of his irises at all, even from inches away from his face. His mouth is hanging open, lips parted helplessly, and, as Enjolras watches, they twist unhappily and release again. 

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he says, and then he's moving back over to the couch. Enjolras's arm hasn't been liberated, and he's dragged along, going quite obediently as Grantaire pulls away the cushion and flings it away, exposing the couch’s hollow bottom. Enjolras guesses that’s more a matter of storage than secrecy: if they were actually raided, there's no way anyone could deny what goes on down here. 

‘I’m giving you twenty,’ he says, holding up a crumpled, medium-sized ziplock bag. ‘No more, you understand? You have to come back here to me if you want more.’

It's so close Enjolras can almost taste it, but he's high on something else right now, and that something is telling him to push his boundaries: reckless, reckless. ‘Thirty,’ he says. ‘Or I go to Montparnasse.’

Grantaire looks at him dully, and they lock eyes again like horns for a few moments before Grantaire's gaze drops away again. ‘ _Fine_ ,’ he snaps, and fishes another bag out of the couch, shoving both of them at Enjolras. He's forced to take them with his left hand, considering Grantaire is still gripping his right, his fingers like an actual vice. Enjolras thinks that this will bruise, too.

‘My wallet is in my back pocket,’ Enjolras says. ‘I can get it, if you let go of my hand.’

‘Hm?’ says Grantaire, like Enjolras has entirely and unexpectedly changed the subject. ‘Oh, fuck, no, you can't make me take your money.’

‘Why not?’ 

‘Just shut up and get out of here. I don't want to look at you anymore.’

‘Alright,’ agrees Enjolras. He feels dizzy, adrenaline diving up and down through his veins, and horribly hungry, but the bags in his hand will sort all that soon enough. Five hours, give or take, until his deadline. He can do this; he knows he can do this, now. 

Grantaire is still clutching his hand.

Enjolras looks at him, but he's staring off bleakly into the corner, eyes glassy and somehow horribly distressed. Enjolras frowns, and somewhere down inside him someone's voice - someone who sounds suspiciously like Combeferre - says _that's your fault, you know that? You're doing this to him._

'He's my dealer,’ Enjolras mutters aloud. 'What's it to him?’

But Grantaire's fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. Impulsively, Enjolras leans those last several inches towards him and kisses him on the cheek.

Grantaire's skin is warm; smoky; a little rough where his light beard fades in (and, seriously, when did that happen?), and as Enjolras pulls away, Grantaire turns to face him. Enjolras only has a split second to register wide, glistening eyes before Grantaire's lips are pressing forwards onto his. 

Enjolras hasn't been kissed many times in his life, and this certainly ranks as the most aggressive. As the shock subsides, he next registers the physicality; Grantaire’s tongue surges against his, hot and demanding and vital, and for a long moment it's all Enjolras can do to gasp and stand there, before he recovers himself and pushes back. 

Grantaire grabs hold of his other wrist with his other hand and tugs him in, and Enjolras stumbles against him, tilting his neck upwards alarmingly to hold their connection, and he's never before noticed how much taller Grantaire is than him - or perhaps he's not very much taller at all, merely very close and entirely overwhelming. 

Enjolras bites against Grantaire's lip, who moans into his mouth, and spins them until Enjolras's back is slamming into something solid. A wall. Since when have they been next to the wall? He doesn't know, but Grantaire is kissing along his jawline and Enjolras barely has time to whine before he's reclaiming his lips again. 

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ Grantaire hisses, and his leg is between Enjolras’s, warm and solid and unyielding. Enjolras ruts up into him with more boldness than he's ever had before, smiling into his mouth, and Grantaire's face is entirely dazed as Enjolras twists his head sideways to assess the impact. He looks like he's having the high of his life. 

Then Grantaire’s eyes lock onto his, and somewhat regain focus. He stares at Enjolras for a moment, and suddenly blood is flowing through Enjolras’s wrists again, and Grantaire's weight is no longer pinning him down. 

He stays peeled to the wall for a moment, confused. ‘Grantaire?’

‘Yeah. I…’

Grantaire’s mouth is still hanging open, and he lifts his wrist to wipe it, like that will seal it shut. ‘I’m not doing this. You are not doing this to me.’

_Doing what to you?_ thinks Enjolras, although when he considers actually saying that he can't quite stomach getting the words out of his mouth. 

‘Just go,’ Grantaire mumbles. The baggies have fallen to the floor, apparently, and Grantaire crouches to pick them up, holding them out to Enjolras gingerly, like he doesn't want to actually put them into his hands, and risk touching him. After a moment, Enjolras takes them. 

Grantaire won't look at him. Ordinarily, Enjolras thinks he would care: would more than care, would catch hold of Grantaire like Grantaire had done to him and demand to know what was wrong; to work this out; until there were no more secret words trapped behind either of their lips, however venomous.

Enjolras's deadline is in less than five hours. The speed is in his hands.

‘I'll come back,’ he says. Of course he will; thirty grams will barely last him out the week.

‘Of course you will,’ says Grantaire. His hand is pressed into his mouth again, like it’s holding all of him together.

Enjolras straightens his clothes, and leaves.


End file.
